Long Hours
by SingingInTheRaiin
Summary: What started as a seemingly normal case for Sherlock quickly evolves into a deadly game of cat-and-mouse after Sherlock finally meets someone who he can consider his equal. The clues start piling up, leading Sherlock on wild chases, until everything leads back to Moira. But 15 is too young to be involved in such a gruesome world, right?
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock glanced up from his microscope with disdain when he heard the sound of his phone's muffled vibrations. He crouched down to pick it up from where it had been resting on the soft carpet, and saw that he was getting a call from Detective Inspector Lestrade. He pressed the speaker button, and put the phone down on the table once he stood back up again.

The D.I. didn't even bother to go for the formal greetings. His voice sounded curt, like usual. "Holmes, you're needed at a crime scene immediately, if not sooner."

Sherlock glanced at his microscope longingly. He had just been in the middle of a very important experiment, so this case had better be worth his time. "What's so unusual about this case?"

Lestrade made a huff of annoyance. "There's no time to discuss this. You need to get to 157 Alresford Road, Winchester, right now. Just hurry, alright."

Sherlock hung up, not in the mood to get into an argument. Lestrade obviously sounded stressed, and it took a lot to upset the man who had already seen so much before. So he went downstairs, and stopped to give Mrs Hudson a quick goodbye, then set out. He summoned a taxi, gave the address, and leaned back in his seat for the duration of the trip.

Once the cab stopped, Sherlock got out, paid the driver, and walked quickly over to where the lines of caution tape were already put out. He noticed that everyone looked a lot more upset than they usually would at a crime scene, and he was now curious about what had all of these trained professionals looking like they'd never seen a body before.

Lestrade was waiting for him, and the slightly shorter man ushered Sherlock over to the scene of the crime, a resigned look on his face. "I'm going to be honest here, Holmes. I'm thoroughly disturbed by every component of this crime, and I'm not alone in that. Everyone here is hoping that you can solve this as soon as possible."

Sherlock snapped on a pair of rubber gloves, and finally he turned to take in the sight. He couldn't immediately spot what had everyone so on edge, so he shuffled forward to inspect the scene closer. It seemed like a pretty typical set up to him. There was a young man, maybe mid-thirties, lying on his back, a bullet hole in his head being the obvious cause of death. A few feet away was a woman, around the same age, who was missing the back of her head. A gun was clutched tightly in her hand. Overall, it looked like a normal murder-suicide setup.

There was a glint from underneath the man's corpse, and Sherlock crouched down to look closer. It was a hair beret with Hello Kitty's face in shining plastic on the end, obviously belonging to a child. Sherlock moved over to the dead woman, and found that the bag lying by her side wasn't a purse, it was one of those backpacks that was basically a hollow teddy bear with straps and a zipper. There was more splatters of blood on it.

Even Sherlock almost blanched at the implications of what he was seeing. There was no third body, but there was evidence that there had been another person present, most likely a little kid. And now that said kid was missing. It was understandable that everyone was upset, because no one like having to deal with dead kids.

Sherlock pulled off the disposable gloves, and walked back over to Lestrade. The D.I. was looking at Sherlock hopefully. "So? Can you say for sure whether or not…?"

Sherlock frowned. "There was definitely a third person present, most likely a child. There's not enough blood to have come from a third person though, so most likely the child was hiding, saw what happened, and ran away as soon as it was over."

Lestrade sighed with relief. "So not only is there no dead kid, there's also a direct witness?"

Sherlock shrugged with boredom. "If you are capable of tracking down a child on your own, I shall take my leave." He started to walk away, then turned back, as though he'd had an after thought. "By the way, this is the third time in one month that you've interrupted my valuable experiments for uninteresting cases. You now officially owe me."

Lestrade pressed his lips together tightly, and one of his eyes twitched. "Fine." He would rather be safe than sorry, and he was glad that he had called in Sherlock either way, just to be on the safe side. Sherlock turned and ducked back under the caution tape, and he raised his arm to hail a taxi once he was at a sidewalk.

When he got back to 221 b Baker Street, Sherlock realized that he had forgotten his key, and he knocked on the front door. Mrs Hudson opened the door, and playful frown on her face. "Sherlock, I'm shocked at you. How could you forget your keys again?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I… apologize?"

Mrs Hudson snorted in disbelief, but she stepped aside to let the man step inside. He nodded gratefully, and made his way up the stairs to his flat. As soon as he opened the door, he could tell that something was wrong. He noticed that there was a slight breeze, even though he made a point of never opening windows during an experiment, to avoid unnecessary variables.

But when his eyes flicked over to the window, he could see the curtain fluttering around a bit, and he knew that someone had been in his flat. Mrs Hudson would have said something if it was her, and she knew better than to try and force healthier habits onto Sherlock. He paused for a moment as he noticed a flash of something from the corner of his eye.

He peered at the front closet, which was the only remotely possible hiding place in the room, with a hard stare, and sighed. "I know that you're there. The light is reflecting off of something you're wearing."

There was a click as the closet door swung open, and a young girl reluctantly stepped out. She looked around fourteen or fifteen years old, there was blood splattered across her otherwise pristine shirt, and the object that he had seen the reflection of was a hair clip with Hello Kitty on it. Her sneakers were caked with dirt, and what looked like more blood.

She dragged herself forward slowly, her head bent down. Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest. This girl obviously had something to do with the bodies that the Scotland Yard was still processing. It would be too great a coincidence to have a bloody girl, even if she was a little older than Sherlock had originally thought, in his apartment, with an identical hairclip to the one found at the scene of the crime.

Sherlock couldn't help feeling like the case had just gotten a lot more interesting. He stared at the girl curiously, and it wasn't long before she cracked under his gaze. She gulped, and slid her eyes to the floor. She spoke in a soft voice, that almost made Sherlock feel like he was talking to the human equivalent of a hamster. Not that there was any such thing. "I'm sorry for coming in here without permission…"

Sherlock huffed. "I believe it's called 'breaking and entering', which is an illegal activity for people of all ages."

The girl bit her lip, then took a deep breath before continuing. "I knew that you were going to be called to the crime scene. The police rely on you, a great deal more than they should. I thought that there would be time to drop something off, and then leave. I should have known that a seemingly straight forward case would only bore you."

"Before you continue, why don't you at least tell me your name?"

The girl frowned, and seemed to have to think about it before nodding slowly. "Alright. My name is Moira."

Sherlock gestured to a clear spot on the couch. "Why don't you take a seat, and tell me everything."


	2. Chapter 2

There was a loud banging sound from downstairs, which was just the front door being slammed shut. Moira jumped in shock, and her face was pale. She took a few deep breaths to compose herself, and Sherlock wondered what had her so jumpy. She looked around, shifting nervously on her feet. Sherlock didn't offer her a nice cup of tea, since she was an intruder.

The girl shuffled over to the spot that had been cleared for her, and sat down. She was sitting at the very edge of the couch, and her legs were tensed to spring into action immediately if the need arose. When Sherlock raised one eyebrow, Moira realized that he wasn't going to prompt her again, or even direct her where to start.

She took a deep breath, and let it out again. "I've never… well, before today, I'd never heard of you before. It's not like I make it my business to know all the things that go on with the police. Today we got a note in the mail, and it said some… inappropriate things. It said that if my parents didn't do everything asked of them, some big secret of theirs would be revealed. I don't know what it is that they don't want getting out, but they seemed eager to comply. Well, my mum did. My dad said that there had to be some way to get out of it, without their secret being exposed."

Sherlock nodded. "Interesting. And your parents just include you in their blackmail conversations?"

Moira shook her head. "Of course not. But they said we were going out to do some errands. They seemed so nervous, though, and I saw the letter sitting on the table. I read as much of it as I could before my mum noticed, and folded it back up. They said that we were going to visit a man named Sherlock Holmes, and that he would be able to fix the situation." She paused, and took several shaky breaths. "They wanted to walk, said that it would be safer. We spotted someone dressed as a bobbie, and my parents handed me the envelope, and told me to hide. He ushered them over to the side of the building that wasn't facing the street. It was the last time I saw them." Tears slid down Moira's cheeks.

Sherlock was pretty sure that he could see where this was going. So it was just a slightly unusual, but still typical case after all. Her parents were blackmailed, they were going to tell, and instead of releasing their secret, they lost their lives. That hardly seemed fair, but for all Sherlock knew, the secret could be that they were murderers or something. Then he frowned. "You said 'someone dressed as a bobbie'. Why?"

Moira shrugged. "He obviously wasn't. He was wearing wingtip shoes, freshly polished. And his jacket was all wrinkled, with a few small tears, like it had gone through some kind of tug-of-war." She sighed. "Mr Holmes, I need your help. My parents seemed so sure that you could help them, and now that they're gone…"

Sherlock raised one eyebrow. "You want me to find their killer." It wasn't a question, that would imply that it was possible for her to give an answer.

Her eyes widened. "What are you talking about? I want you to find my parents, Mr Holmes. I most certainly hope that they never have a killer that needs to be found."

Sherlock shook his head. "Your parents are dead. Their blood is on your clothing."

Moira glanced down, and though it didn't seem to surprise her, it did take her breath away for a moment. Then she looked back up bemusedly. "Mr Holmes, I didn't see my parents again because the bobbie imposter ushered them into a cab and drove away. This isn't the blood of my parents."

The man began pacing back and forth in the cluttered space. "So then it's just a coincidence that a hair clip identical to your own was found at a crime scene, right under one of the bodies?"

Moira shrugged. "Mr Holmes, all I know is that this morning, I was safe, and living a normal life with my normal, happy family. And now my parents have been kidnapped, presumably by the mysterious blackmailer, and if you tell anyone, then I'll be put into some kind of foster system, where I'll have no chance to search for my parents."

Sherlock shook his head. "You said that you should have known that I would be uninterested in a straightforward case. That implies that you knew where I was, and what I was looking at."

Moira's eyes widened a little, and she jumped up from the couch. "You know what? I think I'll just find my parents on my own. I don't need your help." She began to walk over to the door. Normally, Sherlock wouldn't care, and he would just let her go. But this was the first interesting case he'd had in a while, and he had been getting bored sitting around.

He would have grabbed the girl's arm, but that involve touching a stranger, and this particular girl was so jumpy that something like that would probably have her bolting straight through the window. A demanding voice would also have her on the run, since she wasn't like his usual clients at all. Instead, he tried to do something a little different. Like make his voice and demeanor a little bit more friendly. "Wait, don't go. I'll help you."

Moira looked surprised, like she honestly hadn't expected him to be willing to help her. "Oh, uh, that's…" She scowled. "I know you don't actually care about me or my parents. You're only willing to help because you're bored and you have nothing better to do."

Sherlock nodded unashamedly. "That is true. But what other choice do you really have? And you should know that I've yet to get a case that I couldn't solve."

Moira sighed. "Well, I do need your help. And my parents did seem entirely certain that you would be able to help me." She reached into her pocket and pulled out a black envelope, with the words printed out and stuck on it. She held it out to him. "It's literally black mail."

Sherlock carefully looked at the envelope before taking it, and promptly decided that it wasn't hiding a bomb that would detonate in his face as soon as he opened it. He took the item, and saw that the flap was already open, from when Moira's parents had gotten it. He pulled out the sheet of paper that was inside, and unfolded it.

Moira gave him a puzzled look, but she didn't say anything. Sherlock tried to focus on the words in front of him, but he found himself staring at the strange girl. She had long hair that was in a long braid hanging over her shoulder. Her hair was naturally black, with some purple and blue streaks in it. She had stormy grey eyes that were curiously peering around his flat. She wasn't wearing any makeup, and along with the blood splattered blouse, she was wearing dark blue jeans.

Sherlock got the feeling that as Moira looked around, she was seeing his entire life's history, in a way that he himself would, if he were in a stranger's home. That just made her seem even more interesting.

She looked back at him, and was about to cross her arms over her chest in annoyance. But she grimaced as she remembered the state that her shirt was in. "You wouldn't happen to have any spare woman's clothing around here, would you?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No. But you can borrow a shirt while yours is in the wash, if you want."

Moira raised one eyebrow. "Oh, heavens no. Bloodstains do not come out in the wash without some prep first. If you have a light jacket or something, I'll just put it over."

Sherlock sighed. He put the letter down on the counter, and went upstairs to John's room. He was sure that his flatmate wouldn't mind, since John loved children, and despite how Moira was trying to portray herself, she was still a child. He grabbed a jumper from the closet, just a plain dark grey one, and brought it back down to Moira.

The detective rolled his eyes when he saw that she was standing in front of the open fridge, looking curiously at the jar of eyes. Most people got repulsed by that sort of thing, and started screaming, but the teen just looked fascinated. Sherlock went over and slammed the fridge door shut, and handed over the jumper.

She took it and pulled it on over her blouse, and laughed, knowing how she must have looked. John was short, but Moira was shorter, and the sleeves dangled down past her hands, and the bottom edge of the jumper went halfway down her thighs. She rolled up the sleeves, and then turned to Sherlock. "Well, are you going to read the letter or what?"

He sighed, and went back to where he had left the letter. He picked it up, and began to read what had condemned Moira's parents.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock normally prided himself on his sharp focus and being able to tune out everything around him while working on a case, but this was apparently one of the only times, ever, that he wasn't able to put his full concentration where he wanted it to be.

And that problem was because he had to glance up every few seconds to make sure that Moira wasn't breaking any of his things whenever he heard a clatter. He also looked up when there was no sound after a few seconds, because with this particular child, that seemed equally worrying.

It felt like it took forever for Sherlock to finish reading the letter that would normally only occupy his attention for a couple of minutes. Moira wasn't in sight, and Sherlock sighed. Then he heard a bump through the thin wall, and he hurried into his bedroom.

Moira looked up at him from where she was splayed out on the floor, the lamp in her hands. She gave him a sheepish look. "Well, at least I caught it before it could break, right?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. "You're doing this on purpose, aren't you? Do you really want me to drop this case that badly? Are your parents really not that important to you?"

The almost childish look that she had been entertaining disappeared immediately. She carefully stood up, put the lamp back where it was supposed to be, and turned to the detective. "No, please don't drop the case. Of course I want to find my parents. And I'm really sorry for touching your stuff."

Sherlock nodded once to show his satisfaction with her apology, then stared at her with one eyebrow raised until she got the hint to go back into the main room. Once she was out, he left as well, making sure to close the door behind him.

Moira perched on the edge of the couch again, and she looked up at Sherlock with a serious expression. "So, I know that you probably have more questions. Like about the blood and clip and stuff. Those two people out there, they were already lying there, dead. I stopped to check and see if there was anything that I could do."

Sherlock nodded. "Was that your backpack found next to the bodies?"

Moira hesitated, then sighed. "There's some important things in there, and I need to get it back. Can you get it back for me?"

Sherlock tilted his head. "What do you expect me to do? Do you want me to break into the evidence lookup and steal back that bear? The one that they've probably already emptied out by now?"

Moira nodded. "Come on. We both know that the Scotland Yard isn't very competent. They probably wouldn't even notice."

Sherlock hummed one of his favorite songs under his breath as he considered that. "Well… I can try my best to get it back, at worst take a few photos of the contents, but first, you need to tell me what's in the backpack that's so important."

Moira bit her lip as she considered that, and then shook her head. "You know what? It's not really that important. Let's just focus on the part where we find my parents, okay?"

Sherlock nodded, though he made a mental note to check out the contents of that backpack later, when he was alone. Sherlock looked over at Moira. "So where exactly were your parents snatched from? Because that would probably be the best place to search for clues."

Moira bit her lip. "Well… the thing is, I was told to run away by my own parents, and then they were adultnapped, and then I stumbled across two dead bodies while on my way here."

Sherlock raised one eyebrow. "Is there a reason that you just felt the need to recap everything that you've already told me?"

Moira frowned. "I was panicking, not thinking straight, just plain old freaking out. I wasn't exactly paying attention to my surroundings."

The detective frowned. "So basically, what you're telling me, is… that you've got nothing. You have no idea where your parents were abducted from, or where you just happened across a couple of dead bodies."

Moira paused for a moment, like she had to actually think about it, and then she nodded. "Yes, that sounds about right. If you still want to drop the case… I don't blame you. You have nothing to go on, and if anyone finds out that you had a guardianless minor in your home, one that you didn't report, you could get into a lot of trouble."

Sherlock laughed. "Well, I'm not very good at my job if I can't find something among all of the nothing. And as for the other part… we'll find your parents, probably, and then you'll be able to just go home with them."

Moira smiled softly. "How much is your fee?"

Sherlock gave Moira a quick once-over, then shrugged. "Just that blouse that you've got on underneath John's jumper. I need to analyze the blood on it, see if I can learn anything from it."

Sherlock turned away to give Moira a chance to change in privacy, but moments later she tossed her shirt at his back. He turned around. "That was quick."

Moira laughed. "Women are masters of taking of what's underneath without taking off what's on top first."

Sherlock nodded. "Fascinating. Looks like I'm learning new things already." He placed the shirt at his lab table, then hurried over to the door to the flat. He turned back impatiently. "Well, are you coming?"

Moira nodded, and hurried after the genius.


	4. Chapter 4

After they said their goodbyes to Mrs Hudson, who gave the pair the strangest look, they stepped out onto the sidewalk. Moira glanced around, then looked up at Sherlock expectantly. "So? Where exactly are we headed, anyways?"

The man sighed. "Take me to your house. There could be evidence, or clues, there."

Moira hesitated, then nodded. "Alright then. This way." She grabbed Sherlock's hand and began to pull him along. The only thing that stopped him from yanking his arm away immediately was the fact that it would be so easy to lose sight of the small girl on the crowded streets of London.

They walked for a few minutes, and Sherlock made sure to carefully note which way they were going, and what turns they were taking. It was always good to be cautious, especially when he was in the rare situation that left him with no idea what was going on.

As they continued along all of the most crowded streets, Sherlock realized that Moira probably didn't trust him all that much either. If her story was true, and he was pretty sure that it was, then he was just a random stranger that her parents had been on their way to see after receiving blackmail. That didn't exactly paint him in the greatest light, even if they had said that they were just going to him for help.

It was about twenty minutes later that they stopped in front of a rather skinny house. It looked like it had been shoved in between the other two buildings last minute just to fill the extra space, rather than being built with the intended purpose of being an actual home.

Moira went up the steps to the front door, and finally let go of Sherlock's hand, so that she could root around in her pocket for a key, which she pulled out and used to unlock the door. It swung open, and she beckoned for the detective to follow her inside. As soon as he stepped in, Sherlock took in everything, in the way that he always did.

Moira glanced at him. "I think I'm going to go upstairs to change. Is there anything specific that you wanted to look at, or are you just going to investigate everything?"

Sherlock sighed. "I'll just look at everything, so you can go get cleaned up."

Moira rolled her eyes. "Thanks for the permission." She went up the stairs, and Sherlock heard the sound of a door opening and closing. He walked forward, staying on the first floor for now, and found himself in a quaint little den. The place wasn't much bigger than it had looked from the outside.

There was a tv on one wall, with a couch facing it. A small coffee table with random magazines and letters, that all appeared to be bills. Sherlock paused for a moment when he heard the sound of the shower running upstairs, but then went back to his searching. It wasn't unusual for a girl covered in blood to want to scrub it all off. He wasn't sure what exactly he was looking for, and he wasn't sure that he would recognize it even if he found it.

There was a small shelf that went around all the walls of the room, and it was lined completely with pictures. The ones by the hall door were of a wedding, and newly married life. The pictures going around the room showed an entire story, really. There was one with a baby being born, and more snapshots from her life as she grew up, until she was old enough in the photos to be recognizable as the girl that he had met today. The pictures showed her growing up more, until finally there was one of her sitting at a picnic table, eating ice cream, laughing, and looking the same age that she was now. There were no more pictures following it, but there was plenty of space to put more in the future.

Once he had seen all of the pictures, Sherlock went through the door that was opposite the one he had come in through, and he found himself in the kitchen. There was a small pile of mail, and the date declared that they had just been brought home today.

Before Sherlock could look around some more, there was a knock on the front door. The shower upstairs stopped, and the knocking became the only noise reverberating through the small house. There was a few more knocks, and then the door, which was still unlocked apparently, was opened. There was a soft grunt of surprise, but it didn't sound like the intruder had actually entered the house yet.

From where he was in the kitchen, the intruder wouldn't be able to spot Sherlock. He ducked behind the counter anyways, and hoped that Moira would have the good sense to find a place to hide upstairs. The intruder spoke loudly. "This is Detective Inspector Lestrade of the Scotland Yard! Is anybody home?"

There was a stretch of silence, and then the sound of a door upstairs opening and slamming shut, and the sound of bare feet pattering across hardwood flooring. Sherlock stood up, so it wouldn't look like he was hiding, but moved closer to the door so he could see what was going on.

Moira was standing at the foot of the stairs in shorts and a tank top, and her hair was still soaking wet. Her eyes were wide as she stared at the police officer in front of her. "Um... "

Lestrade frowned. "Do you often just leave your front door unlocked like that? What if someone bad wanted to get in?"

Moira raised one eyebrow. "Um… if someone bad wanted to come in, I really doubt that they would even bother with the front door. Way too many people outside that would be able to spot them. They'd probably go around back and climb in a window or something, so whether or not the front door is locked doesn't make a difference."

Lestrade narrowed his eyebrows. "And you are…?"

"Moira Anders. I live here. But why are you here?"

The D.I. got a sad look on his face. "Are your parents around?"

Moira shook her head apologetically. "No, sorry, they're out. Why? Is something wrong?" She sounded so tense, like she actually had no idea that anything bad had happened, and Sherlock silently commended her acting abilities.

Lestrade had that look, like the one he had when he had to deliver the bad news to a family that someone they loved was dead. Moira, even though she had never seen that look before, was probably smart enough to figure out what it meant. But who could have died? Moira wasn't being arrested, so she hadn't been implicated in the murder of that dead couple. And Lestrade had asked for her parents, so they hadn't been found dead either. Then who?

The policeman shook his head sadly. "I really need to talk to your parents. Do you know when they'll be home?"

Moira shook her head. "No, sorry."

Lestrade turned to leave. "I'm sorry to have bothered you. I'll come back later."

Moira reached out and grabbed his arm. She looked scared. "Wait, what happened?"

Lestrade hesitated, but then shook his head. "I'm sorry, but I just need to talk to your parents. Please tell them to call this number once they're home." He handed Moira a card, and she accepted it mutely. Lestrade left, and Moira shut the door behind him. She turned to where Sherlock was standing, and the scared worried look was gone. It had just been an act. Sherlock wondered if there was anything else about Moira that was just an act.


	5. Sorry

i'm sorry to have gotten everyone into the groove of my new updating schedule for a little while only to stop now, but I don't think I can keep it up. Because I started most of my stories so long ago, all my inspiration and ideas from all of them is gone. I'm sorry to do this, but I can't keep going. If anyone wants to continue any of these on their own, that's perfectly fine with me. But don't expect any more from me. I've gotten a lot of anon reviews on my stories that I've chosen not to accept to be shown since they are extremely rude, and I know there are a lot of people out there who appreciate my work, but there's also a lot of people who try to constantly tear me down, so that on top of my lack of inspiration is something I can no longer handle. I sincerely apologize for this.


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